


If You Had to Choose

by DwarvenBeardSpores



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Bad Decisions, Canon Era, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Historical Inaccuracy, Politics, The Election of 1800
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 13:38:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11162961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DwarvenBeardSpores/pseuds/DwarvenBeardSpores
Summary: Hamilton makes a choice, and it only slightly has to do with politics. Hamilton chooses to save Aaron Burr.





	If You Had to Choose

**Author's Note:**

> I got to see Hamilton in Chicago June 6th, and it changed my life. It also reminded me that I should write Hamilton fic. 
> 
> This idea came to me while I was in the theater. Something about the way the actors played The Election of 1800 made this motivation come to light. So I had to write about it. 
> 
> Very angsty. I hope you enjoy!

It’s not just Burr’s slick smile, or his slippery politics, or his saccharine words. Not just the way his personality oozes over everyone he comes across, as though he’s trying to become whatever each person wants to see in him. Hamilton is used to those things, mostly, though this campaigning business is all new. But he and Burr have worked together and laughed together and fought together. He still considers Burr a friend.

That’s why he can’t quite figure out what it is about this business that makes Hamilton feel like he’s going to be sick.

“I’m going after what I want,” Burr says, with that grin all over his face, even in places it doesn’t belong. “And you know what? I learned that from you.”

Hamilton can’t for the life of him think of what to say in response.

“So. Can I count on the support of an old friend?” Burr asks. He holds out his hand, and Hamilton stares at it, and his stomach lurches and twists in on itself, and he realizes that he’s not breathing.

He can’t be here anymore.

“I… I need to go,” he says finally. “Eliza. You know.” He gestures at his clothes, still black with grief. He gestures at the street, as though somebody else’s bustle might be transferrable onto himself. He turns and leaves without waiting to hear what Burr says in response.

Hamilton doesn’t where he went or how he got there. He just knows that suddenly he’s on his knees in an alley, dry heaving into the gutter. (He can’t remember the last thing he’s eaten, the thing he should by rights be throwing up. He can’t remember how long its been since he’s eaten anything.) He doesn’t know anything except, with overwhelming certainty, _he can’t let Burr do this_.

* * *

 “His politics are practically non-existent,” Hamilton says to Hercules. The two have barely spoken since the revolution. After Lafayette moved away, and John… Hamilton doesn’t talk about what happened to John. The point is, that when half a group disappears, the other half either band together more tightly than ever, or they lose themselves and each other while trying not to remember.

Hamilton and Hercules did the latter.

But there is still some level of trust between them, and Hamilton is desperate. He was just walking, trying to clear his head. That’s all he’d been doing lately. Walking. Sometimes with Eliza, sometimes without. Never and always with Phillip just over his shoulder, just out of sight. He’d passed a bar and looked in, and there was Hercules, having a pint and chatting with the bartender, and Hamilton hadn’t even thought about it before he was inside too.

“So tell me,” Hamilton says. There had been very little preamble. “Would you vote for him? Really? I mean I can’t be the only one who thinks it’s a bad idea.”

“Well, who’s the other candidate, though. Jefferson?” Hercules shakes his head, and Hamilton can’t help noticing how much older he looks. Comfortable and lined and sure of himself in a more stable way than the desperate certainty they’d once both shared. “Dude’s trouble.”

“I know,” Hamilton says. “But at least I know what _kind_ of trouble. Jefferson is despicable, his policies will run everyone into the ground, but he does have policies. And what’s more important for the union, not just for the short term, but for our future? And not my future, but the future of the nation? You agree, don’t you?”

Hercules shrugs. “I haven’t made up my mind yet. Burr’s not much of a team player, but I know the guy. Jefferson’s just way out there. Besides, don’t you hate everything he stands for?” He takes a drink. His eyebrow raises and he eyes Hamilton slyly. Hamilton can tell when he’s being goaded into an argument. He wants to reciprocate, the way he always used to. But he is so tired.

He shakes his head. “It was a stupid thing to bring up. Nevermind.”

“Woah, hold on,” Hercules says. “It’s not stupid, it’s just. You come in here after God knows how many years, and it’s all of a sudden about Burr?”

There are so many things Hamilton wants to say. _Thank you for listening_ , and _I’m sorry_ , and _I miss you_ , and _knowing someone doesn’t mean they’re more competent than someone else; in fact if you look at the race objectively it’s precisely Burr’s unknowability that’s skewing the results, and…_

He doesn’t say any of them. He gets up to leave.

“No look. I get it,” Hercules says. “You’re jealous. You worked your ass off right from the start, and he’s running for president and you’re a public disgrace.” He opens his hands to show he means no offense. “Look, why don’t we try and catch up a bit. Make it sound like you’re here to talk to me, not just to anybody with an ear, then we’ll see what we can do about Burr.”

Hamilton wants to say _yes,_ wants to say _let’s get as drunk as we used to and forget all of this_ , wants to say _I should be jealous but I don’t think I am. What does that mean?_

What he says instead is “I would make a horrible president.”

Then he really does leave.

* * *

He avoids Burr. He avoids Jefferson. He avoids everyone he works with, which isn’t hard, since half of them don’t want to talk to him anyway. The other half just want to know how he’ll vote, and he refuses to answer. People whisper in the corners just out of earshot, and he knows he stands out, still dressed in black and uncharacteristically silent. He still can’t bring himself to care.

He’s approached by James Madison two days before the vote. The man has no tact. He coughs to get Hamilton’s attention, and then (because he’s always coughing and Hamilton takes no notice), he says “excuse me.”

Hamilton keeps walking.

“Hamilton.” Madison picks up his pace to follow. “A word, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind,” Hamilton says. “Leave me alone.”

“I know you and Jefferson have had your differences,” Madison says, and the understatement of that is so astounding that Hamilton can’t help but turn to look at him in amazement. “But you know he’s a competent politician. You know he can argue as well as you can-“

“Almost as well as I can-“

“-and you know how instrumental he’s been to the construction of our nation thus far.” Madison coughs again. “Now, I know you and Burr have a history, but you need to stop and think who would be better for us on a national level.”

“Jefferson’s politics revolt me,” Hamilton says. “I don’t know why he’s even asking.”

“He’s not,” Madison says. “I am. He’d rather ignore you altogether, but I convinced him it was worth a shot. I know you have your pride and your reputation to think about, but by backing the stronger of two candidates I can guarantee…”

“Pride?” Madison might keep talking, but Hamilton has stopped paying attention. “You think I have anything to be proud of?”

“Well of course,” Madison says. “Your policies, despicable though they are, have been working more smoothly than-“

Hamilton laughs. “My policies!” he says, and continues to laugh as he picks up his pace and turns the corner, leaving Madison behind in the hall. He can’t even remember a single one he’s passed.

* * *

Hamilton has a place in bed next to Eliza, but it’s fragile and impermanent. He knows he’s only there because passing the night alone is unbearable. He climbs into bed cautiously. If he messes up, he knows Eliza can call for her sister, or for one of their other children, or for a friend down the road who has said “anything, anything at all,” and looked at Eliza so fondly that Hamilton has no doubts she would stay the night. He has nobody else. And so he is cautious.

He does not bring up politics in bed, and so he does not tell Eliza about the sick feeling he has about Burr running for president. He knows she’d be able to untangle it, to understand why he can’t even argue his position, but her wisdom is not something he can ask for anymore.

He wraps his arms around Eliza’s waist and she leans back into him, and they lie in the dark and pretend to be asleep. Hamilton suspects they’re both thinking about their son.

When he sent Phillip off that morning with his guns, he had been so sure his advice was sound. How many times had he chosen to do the unexpected and bold thing himself, how many wild risks had he taken, and somehow he’d always been alright. There was no reason Phillip shouldn’t have been. Except… except there was every reason. Hamilton can see now. There were so many things that could have gone wrong, and they had. And now Phillip was gone.

Hamilton presses his face into Eliza’s shoulder to hold back a sob. She doesn’t turn around to comfort him, but her hand finds its way to rest on top of his.

“I’m sorry,” Hamilton says. It’s never enough.

Eliza says nothing.

Hamilton squeezes his eyes shut and tries to think about something else. He latches onto the only other thing in his mind: the fact that Burr is running for president.

He thinks _Burr doesn’t have the temperament to be running for anything_ , and that’s true. He thinks _he could do anything once he’s elected, or nothing; all he wants is the power_ , and that’s true too. _He’s going to be a disaster. He’s going to ruin the country and himself in the process._

And then Hamilton thinks _he’s taking my advice; this is my fault_ , and that’s the truest thing of all.

* * *

Hamilton goes out early the next morning. He walks past an uncomfortably familiar house and hears shouting from within it. A part of him wants to run inside, to defend Maria Reynolds from her husband, to play the savior. That’s what he’d tried to do before, and it had ruined them both. It had ruined Eliza. He shuts his eyes and walks past.

Burr is out in the square, still campaigning. The morning is cool, but sweat runs down his forehead and down the sides of his face. The smile doesn’t move, doesn’t change, as though it was painted onto Burr’s face.

Hamilton steels his reserve and steps forward. “Aaron Burr, Sir.”

Burr turns toward him, and something about his smile changes, becomes a little more real. “Alexander.”

“I need to talk to you about the vote,” Hamilton says.  
  
Burr looks around. “Can it wait? I need to make sure I hit these people this morning.”

“No,” Hamilton says. “I mean, I can make it fast.”

“Do that then.” Burr turns to smile at a woman walking down the street. He steps toward her and, very charmingly, hands he a flyer with his name on it. She blushes and continues down the road. “Never underestimate the sway a woman has over her husband,” Burr says. “Now, you were saying?”

Hamilton had been watching the scene with glazed eyes. He couldn’t believe the change that had come over Burr. He could see, as clear as if it was written out a hundred times, Burr winning the election, Burr faltering, freezing, failing, Burr in disgrace being hunted down, being exiled, looking sadly at the shambles of his life. And it would all be Hamilton’s fault.

He can’t let that happen. Not to his first friend.

“I just wanted you to know,” Hamilton begins.

“I know,” Burr says. “It was never in doubt.”

That’s wrong. “I wanted you to know _why_ ,” Hamilton tries again. “Why I’ll be voting the way I am. It’s because I’ve always cared about you. Even when you infuriate me.”

“Oh?” says a new voice, off to his left. “And how _will_ you be voting, Mr. Hamilton?” Hamilton turns to see an older man looking very interested in the conversation. “You know, people have been asking around. I, for one, am certain you’re going to vote for Burr. Hah! I can’t imagine otherwise.”

“Of course he’s voting for me,” Burr says smoothly, stepping between the two. Hamilton opens his mouth to protest, but Burr adds “but no one’s supposed to know that.” The man nods quickly, locks his lips, and runs off. Burr watches him go chuckles. “That will be in all the taverns by this evening,” he says to Hamilton, his voice low and confidential.

“No,” Hamilton says, because Burr is so wrong.

“Now if you don’t mind,” Burr says, “we’ll talk later. You look so ill; I don’t want the people afraid to approach me.”

Hamilton does feel sick. He feels tired and sad and useless. And suddenly it doesn’t matter if Burr understands or not. What’s the worst thing that could happen? Burr gets angry and cuts Hamilton out of his life entirely. He wouldn’t be the first, and probably not the last. And it would be better for Burr that way, without Hamilton coming in and ruining everything.

“I wish you the best,” Hamilton says softly, and he lets Burr walk away toward another crowd of people.

* * *

The Congress room is crowded and smelly with anticipation. Hamilton keeps his head down, his short stature for once a blessing as he squirms between people’s shoulders. In his hands are papers, noting down what he should say. He’s trying to be careful.

Jefferson sneers at him from across the room, and Hamilton scowls back. “Lookie who’s finally made a decision,” Jefferson says loudly, and everyone, everyone, turns to look. The electoral college vote is tied, and has been tied. Hamilton’s vote will determine who will be running for president against Adams (and probably winning, given how incompetent John Adams is).

Hamilton squares his shoulders. “I have,” he says. People part to let him near the front of the room. He finds his way behind a podium and braces himself on the sides.

“The country is facing a difficult choice,” he says. “And if I’m honest, I’d rather not vote for either of these two men.” The room laughs nervously. Hamilton leans forward so everyone can hear him. “But when all is said and all is done, Jefferson has beliefs. Burr has none.”

There is a fleeting moment of silence, and then an uproar. Hamilton sees Jefferson in the back, looking as though someone had slapped him across the face. He doesn’t see Burr. So be it.

“I think you’ll all agree that, whatever our political differences, Jefferson is a worthy opponent. More so, he has frequently and consistently stood up for what he believes in. We need a president who is confident in his choices, not one who will pander to the whims of whoever’s nearby.”

He keeps going. He feels like he hasn’t said a word in months. And yes it’s overkill, yes his vote was probably enough, but he needs to make sure. He is the reason Burr will not be the president this year, and if his speech is strong enough, he may be able to prevent Burr from ever reaching the position.

His chest lightens as he talks. People who follow his advice are doomed; he should have learned that long ago. Laurens, fighting recklessly without heed for his own life. Eliza, believing he’d be true. Maria, believing he could do something for her. Phillip, putting so much trust in an old man who didn’t know what he was talking about. He had ruined all of them. But Burr? Burr he could still save.

(And if he ruined Thomas Jefferson in the process, so be it.)

Confidence and recklessness are dangerous, but Hamilton channels everything he has left into this speech. Fifteen minutes, that was all. Not a very long speech, really.

He leaves the podium certain of his decision. Jefferson is leaning against a wall, fanning his face as though the shock of Hamilton’s decision had made him physically ill. There is still no sign of Burr.

* * *

Two days later, Hamilton receives a letter from vice-presidential candidate Aaron Burr, and the glow of success vanishes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I'd love to know what you think!!
> 
> I can also be found on tumblr as @dwarven-beard-spores


End file.
